The Black Boar
by Midasgirl
Summary: Christine wants to go out. Erik obliges. Featuring gin, folk music, and stars.


_**A/N: ** This story was born out of folk music, and the feeling that a night at a folk club, and a splash or two of gin, might be just what Erik and Christine needed to loosen up a little bit. To the best of my knowledge, folk clubs are an exclusively British and, latterly, American phenomenon, so this will require a little suspension of disbelief. _

_Anyone who would like to hear a bit of the kind of music I was listening to when I wrote this, google Bellowhead: they're distinctly non-period but it's that energy and vitality that put this little one-shot into my head._

**1**

It had been a long, quiet day in Erik's house. Christine had finished her book, attempted to do some light cleaning, and was now standing in Erik's library pondering.

He was unusually gentle that evening. After dinner, he read to her from the new novel which was taking Paris by storm. The shadows cast by the fire flickered on the walls, and Christine rose, absently pressing her fingers to the tapestry which covered the closest wall. It was always dark down here, of course; with no windows, it was impossible to tell the time of day without the aid of the clock, and although the warmth of the fire was comforting, she was beginning to feel stifled by the relentless timelessness of Erik's house.

He had closed the book, and was watching her closely.

"Are you well?" he inquired softly.

Christine took a deep breath. Even the air felt different down here. Not even the roaring fire could take the chill dampness away fully – how did he bear it? - and the air tasted vaguely stale, musty, as though it had been breathed by everybody in the Opera House before. She longed for windows, for fresh air, for the sting of the cold night on her face.

She became aware of Erik watching her, his carefully impassive expression not quite disguising the uncertainty in his eyes.

"Are you well?" he repeated.

She laughed a little. "Yes." He looked unconvinced, and she hurried to convince him. "Truly, I am well. I -"

"Yes?"

She took a deep breath, and spoke before she could change her mind. "Could we go out?"

His expression changed in some way; an infinitesimal shift passed over his face, like ripples on a deep lake. He carefully laid the book he had been reading on the table, and took his wine glass into his hands, though he did not drink. "You wish to go home?" he asked.

Christine suddenly felt the cold of the catacombs pierce her. "Oh, no!" The answer escaped her before she had time to think about it, and she put that rather surprising detail into a mental box to be opened later. "No," she repeated gently, and saw his shoulders loosen a little. "I feel a little fresh air would be good for my voice."

Unexpectedly, he laughed. Christine thrilled at the sound: that magnificent voice seemed made for such rich sound, and he so rarely laughed that it still felt like the first sun of springtime.

"Forgive me," he said gently. "I must remember how claustrophobic this house must feel to you." He waved away her protest, and stood with sudden energy. "Where would you like to go?"

Christine looked at the walls and imagined the stars. "Somewhere alive. Somewhere with music, and laughter." She felt his eyes on her and blushed, remembering how little such a place was likely to appeal to his reclusive tastes. "Somewhere you love." A little embarrassed, she looked up to see his eyes soft.

"I believe I have just the place," he said. He glanced her up and down, and made a gesture towards her room. "You will need to change. Something warm, and not too smart."

**1**

Christine returned to the living room some time later. Clad in a pale grey dress and sensible boots, she felt like dancing. Such excitement, to be going out! She had not ceased to puzzle over where Erik could possibly be taking her: his tastes seemed so exclusively tailored to the refined, the elegant and the cultured that she could not imagine him in a setting which would require less than full evening dress. It came as a somehow thrilling shock that sent tiny shivers up her spine when he emerged from his room dressed as casually as she had ever seen him: dark colours, of course, but warm clothing more fitted to the sort of establishment she had frequented with her father during their travels around local fairs than this opulent palace five storeys below the street.

She knew a moment of surprise as she realised he was carrying his violin case. "Are you bringing your violin?" she asked, and then flushed at the idiocy of the question.

He did not seem to mind, nodding an affirmative as he looked her over. "Will you be warm enough?" he asked. "It is a cold night."

Christine did not ask how he could possibly know that when neither of them had left the house all day. Excitement fizzing through her, she nodded, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles.

"You're not going to tell me where we're going, are you?" she asked, and his eyes flashed with what, in another man, she would have called glee. He shook his head and gestured towards the door.

"After you, my dear."

**1**

Christine emerged from the carriage, eagerly drinking in the frigid night air. They were still in Paris – or at least she thought they were – but some way from the centre of the city. There was less light here, and when she tilted her head, she could see the stars: millions of them, puncturing the sky with tiny blazes. It was strange, she thought suddenly, that it should take a truly dark night to see such lights. She had never seen them shine so brightly in the city.

Behind her, she heard Erik pay the driver and descend from the carriage himself. She turned to look at him, beaming with joy she could not quite account for.

"Look at the stars!" she ordered. "Aren't they beautiful?"

Erik obeyed, tilting his head to look up into the sky. "Yes," he agreed at last, his eyes coming to rest on her. "Beautiful."

She shivered. Erik noticed, and swiftly indicated a dirt path leading towards some lights in the distance.

"Come," he said peremptorily. "The cold is not good for your voice."

She followed him toward the light. As they approached the building, which looked suspiciously like a public house, she could hear music and laughter spilling out of the windows. It sounded chaotic. She hesitated, glancing apprehensively up at Erik.

"It's quite safe," he assured her.

A worn sign flapped in the wind. Christine looked up, and laughed in spite of herself in delight. "Look at the pig!" The sign bore an image of a distinctly friendly-looking pig, its head cocked on one side as though in inquiry, or welcome. The moniker _The Black Boar_, emblazoned above, seemed inappropriately grandiose for such a homely, inviting creature. Christine felt her nerves slip away, and little prickles of excitement begin to return. This was a strange night, somehow removed from Paris and everything she knew as normal there. Her neck tingled.

Erik gestured towards the door. "Shall we?" Christine nodded, and pushed it open.

It was the warmth that struck her first. An immense fire was blazing in the grate, and the heat was intense. She reeled, and became aware of the volume of sound emanating from inside the building: chaotic, reeling music played on all kinds of instruments.

She stepped inside, and paused to look around. It was much like the folk clubs her father had frequented when she was young: a motley assortment of people, of both genders and of all ages, largely dressed in worn clothing, and an equally wide variety of battered, well-loved instruments. Across the room from her, an old man with shockingly white hair strummed a mandolin with tremendous energy; he caught her eye, and winked, a gesture of welcome rather than of insolence. Christine smiled. One or two musicians seemed to have some sort of sheet music, scrawled casually on thin, stained paper. Most, however**,** seemed tobe playing on instinct: taking, perhaps, the key or tempo of a piece and improvising new and strange melodies which created a pulsating, throbbing rhythm which beat against the whitewashed walls of the public house and passed into the very atmosphere. A wave of relief and sudden joy swept over her, and she turned to Erik to share the moment.

He smiled at her, and she was about to speak, to express her excitement, her gratitude – when, without warning, a young woman accosted them, flinging her arms around Erik's neck.

"Erik!"

Too astonished to respond to this unthinkable turn of events, Christine could only gape as the girl pressed a robust kiss to the unmasked half of Erik's face. Ever since she had known him, Erik had always recoiled from her touch as though from the plague, and yet he seemed unaffected by this assault on his person. The girl was young, perhaps only a few years older than Christine herself, with clouds of flaming red hair ineffectually restrained by clips that appeared to be made out of pine cones. Her face was warm and pleasingly rounded, and the dress she wore revealed plump shoulders flushed with the fire's heat.

"It's been too long, Erik! We were beginning to think you'd forgotten us. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

With remarkable grace, Erik extricated himself from the woman's embrace and gestured towards Christine.

"Forgive me, Áine. I have found myself unaccustomedly busy recently." The girl cast inquisitive and not altogether welcoming eyes over Christine, and Christine flushed hotly, feeling scrutinised and plain in her plain grey dress.

"Christine, this is Áine. Áine – Christine."

Áine swept an extravagant welcoming gesture. "Wonderful to meet you, Christine. Well, well, Erik -" - a rather sharp glance in his direction - "aren't you the dark horse." She waved towards the barman, who nodded, and reached behind the bar to produce a ladle of some vaguely opalescent liquid which looked like a mixture of oil and something which had been dredged from the bottom of a pond.

"House brew?" she offered, pouring the concoction into a glass and proffering it towards Christine.

Christine heard Erik laugh, and saw him take the glass from Áine himself before she could accept it.

He took a sip and pulled a wry face. "No, Áine," he said firmly, but his voice was smiling. "I want her back in one piece at the end of the evening, please." He turned to Christine. "What would you like to drink?"

Christine stared at him, hardly able to process the question. The music in the background was thrumming through her, making her daring. Under Áine's eye, she chose the most scandalous drink she could think of, redolent of bars and ballerinas put to bed in disgrace. "Gin, please."

It was to Erik's credit that his expression flickered not at all. He attracted the attention of the bartender with a neat snap of his fingers and gave the order, retaining the glass of house brew for himself. He handed the glass to Christine, and although he said nothing, she could feel him watching her closely. She inspected the drink cautiously, and took a tentative sip.

The gin exploded down her throat, and she coughed, her eyes watering. The room seemed to teeter, and she saw Erik reach out as though to steady her. She waved him away, feeling her face flame scarlet as the room blurred through her tears.

It was Áine who saved the day. She seized Christine by the hand and clinked glasses with her. "Hear hear, Christine!" she said cheerfully, taking an enormous gulp of her own toxic-looking brew and choking heartily on it. "Ghastly stuff, isn't it?" She snapped her fingers at Erik – Christine barely had time to register her astonishment – and ordered, "Well, go on: find the lady somewhere to sit." She turned back to Christine with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. "Honestly, men, eh? Need to be told how to do everything."

It was with a half-amused narrowing of the eyes at Áine that Erik ushered Christine towards an empty seat at the far end of the pub. She sat, feeling faintly disoriented by the events of the night, still clutching her glass.

Erik settled himself into the seat beside her. "I think that this is not, perhaps, the excursion you were hoping for," he remarked, taking a sip from his drink and looking away from her, glancing around the bar at the assembled musicians. "Forgive me. It was thoughtless of me to have brought you here."

"Oh, no!" Christine shook her head. "No, you are mistaken. This is just the sort of place my father and I used to visit when I was a little girl." She laughed, a little self-consciously. "He didn't feed me gin, then, of course ..." She felt, rather than saw, Erik smile. She looked around, taking in the warmth and the gently alcoholic feel of the entire room. On the other side of the pub, two girls had begun to dance an impromptu, none-too-precise ceilidh. They were both laughing, and looked wonderfully beautiful. Egged on by the seated musicians, one young man abandoned his accordion and rose to join them. Christine blinked back tears and smiled. "I loved those times. The music – it's so alive, so vibrant. It crawls inside my soul and makes me want to – to dance – My father would play, and I would dance to the music. I ..." She hesitated, wondering whether she dared continue. He crooked an eyebrow, and she plunged on, her voice soft under the laughter coming from the dancers. "I find it hard to imagine you here."

He gaze her that dazzling, crooked smile which emphasised the unnaturally flat surface of the mask, and took a deep draught from his drink.

"I cannot resist the music," he said at last. "When I was ... very young ... I would creep to the local folk club and sit outside all night, listening. It is not like opera: it has not its refinement, its control, its passion. But there is something visceral about it. It calls to me."

Christine understood that. She had been a folk club child herself. But she could not leave it at that; surely there was more. She peeked sideways. "And, perhaps, the company?" she ventured.

Erik smiled, seemingly in spite of himself. "And the enticing fare on offer." He drained his glass, and winced. "This really is dreadful stuff. Can I get you another gin?" He had ended the conversation easily, casually, as though the sudden revelation that he _did_ have a life outside the Opera House, that he _could_ interact with people other than herself, were not a terrific shock.

She held out her glass, nodding assent.

No sooner had Erik left to refill the drinks order than Áine appeared, flopping into the chair he had vacated with a great sigh. She was perspiring lightly, and looked wonderfully vital; she had clearly been dancing.

"How are they treating you, Erik's lady?" she asked, taking thirsty gulps from a glass of the house brew.

Christine smiled. In spite of her instinctive unease around this woman who touched Erik so easily, it was impossible to dislike Áine. She was so straightforwardly blunt that she felt like a relief after the refinedly snide world of the Opera.

"So, how long have you known Erik?" Christine asked.

Áine reflected. "It must be a few years now. He drifted in one night about five years ago, dressed up like the spectre at the feast, and hid in the corner all night. Finally, someone asked him whether he could play. He took someone's old fiddle and made it sing." Áine's eyes softened. "It's no mean feat to reduce this place to silence, but you can't imagine the effect that man's music can have." She took a draught from her glass and shook her head. "What am I saying? Surely you can. You must have heard him play."

Christine nodded. "Yes." Suddenly uncertain, she cleared her throat. It felt strange to talk about Erik with anyone: so long had he been a closely-guarded secret that she could not think how to tell their story, let alone to someone who had evidently known him longer.

There was a silence. Áine drank deeply from her glass, surveying the dancers. "How about you?" she asked at last. "How do you know the man himself?"

Christine drew a breath, and then Erik shouldered his way through the throng, bearing another gin and another glass of house brew. He offered them to the women without a pause, though he must have meant the latter for himself.

"Forgive me," he said. "This may be the only place in the world where the bartenders serve other men ahead of me."

Áine winked and rose from her seat. "Thanks for the drink, Erik," she said cheerfully. "Christine, you've not danced at all yet. Join me?"

Christine looked to Erik, who nodded. She looked with momentary uncertainty at the drink in her hand, but Áine caught her eye and emptied her own glass in two hearty mouthfuls. Attempting to emulate her, Christine swallowed the gin and was led away, scarlet and choking, by Áine. Glancing back at Erik, through tear-blurred eyes she would have sworn she saw him smile.

Áine did not release Christine's hands, urging her into a fast dance to which she did not know the steps. Offering silent prayers of thanks for the rigorous ballet training of the Opéra Garnier, Christine abandoned herself to the music and the stamping, cheering liveliness of the rest of the dancers. A flute kept a dizzying, wilfully insistent rhythm which stole inside her and caught her breath. She felt recklessly free, utterly abandoned to the music. Her hair was coming down: she swept it behind her shoulders and took a swallow of the drink somebody had put into her hand. She did not feel inebriated: this was rather freedom, a release from the inhibitions of normal life. Here, with these people who smiled so widely and laughed so readily, who took her hands and danced with her as though they had known each other all their lives, Christine felt liberation so overwhelming that it was more intoxicating than gin.

She must have danced for a long time. Panting, she curtseyed to her partner, a slender young man with light brown hair which kept falling across his eyes, and excused herself. She made her way back to the area of the bar where she had left Erik, and saw him deep in conversation with Áine. A moment of conversation reached her:

"God, you're tense around her, aren't you?" - and his voice, cool but so normal - "It's complicated."

She blushed hotly. She saw Erik glance towards the dance floor, clearly seeking her, and she stepped forwards. The feeling of liberation was still warm within her veins, making her bold. Both Erik and Áine smiled at her approach, and she realised that she must look terribly bedraggled: she could feel her cheeks still pink with exertion, and her hair had come down so completely that the few remaining pins seemed a waste of effort. It came as a surprising but not unwelcome realisation that she didn't mind. This evening was already so strange in its utter normality.

"Are they looking after you?" asked Erik.

Christine nodded. "You haven't danced yet."

_Áine smiled. "Erik never dances."_

Christine felt the music pouring through her, and held out her hands. "He will with me," she said. "Won't you?"

Erik was still for a moment, and Christie knew a sharp stab of fear that he would smile kindly and dismiss her. Then, astonishingly, he laughed aloud, tossed back his drink, and handed his violin to Áine, who received it with a raised eyebrow and a lightly amused smile.

She led him to the dance floor. It did not escape her notice that he did not reach out to touch her, but waited for her to take hold of his hands.

Dancing with Erik was the strangest experience Christine could imagine. It was clear that, like her, he did not know the steps, but he was a keen observer and a swift learner, and he rapidly became the more competent of the two of them. She felt intensely aware of the strength of his arms, and she felt herself flushing for reasons that had very little to do with the heat of the dance floor.

The song ended, and Christine turned with the rest of the dancers to applaud the musicians. She was aware of Erik beside her. She could see a pulse beating fast in his throat. He brushed a hand across the unmasked side of his face, and she realised that he must be hot under the mask.

"Isn't that uncomfortable?" she asked without thinking, and winced as Erik's eyes, dark and suddenly still, met hers.

"Less so than the alternative," he said simply. Before she could respond, he had turned away from her. "Drink?" he offered.

Christine felt the heat of the room and recalled the sensation of Erik's hands clasping her own. "House brew," she said firmly.

Erik glanced at her, and she met his gaze defiantly. He smiled, and gave the order. "Don't tell Antoinette I let you drink this," he said, handing it over, and Christine laughed aloud.

**1**

It must have been two hours later. Christine had danced with several different partners, drunk from several different glasses, and felt ready to cry with happiness. She had never seen Erik so relaxed: he was conversing easily with the members of the folk club who seemed accustomed to his presence, and he had even undone his cravat. He looked dangerously like every other man she knew. The realisation came as something of a surprise.

"Erik, this is a poor show," said the young man beside them at the bar. "All night you've sat here and never played a note. What is that beautiful thing" (gesturing to Erik's violin, at his feet like a faithful dog) "for if not to make music?"

There was a murmur of assent, and Erik gave an elaborate sigh. He finished his drink with a flourish, and took his violin into his hands.

"What are we having tonight?" asked a middle-aged man with a battered guitar, strumming chords at random.

Erik extended one slender hand towards Christine. "The lady chooses, of course," he said softly.

Christine named an old Swedish folk song and saw Erik smile faintly in response. He plucked a string, testing the sound, and lifted his violin.

Christine could not identify the moment at which the pub fell silent. She became aware of tears on her face, and hastily wiped them away; across the bar, she could see Áine doing the same thing.

A heavy-set man standing behind Erik clapped him heavily on the shoulder. "Good to have you back, lad," he said gruffly. There was a murmur of approbation and, slowly, the band started up again.

Christine looked at Erik. His face was turned away from her; he seemed bewildered, or perhaps embarrassed, by the experience: although she knew from Áine that he had played for this crowd before, Christine could not shake the feeling that tonight was different.

The crowd adjusted itself; the band struck up a lively tune, and the floor filled with dancers. Christine quietly sat down in the empty seat beside Erik, who was busying himself with putting his violin back into its case, taking his time about the task. When he could put it off no longer, he looked up hesitantly to meet her eyes. As though in apology, he shrugged.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Hesitant, and crooked due to the unyielding blankness of the mask, a smile flickered briefly on his face.

Christine became aware of the ringing of a heavy metallic bell.

"Time, gentlemen, please."

She glanced queryingly at Erik. "They're closing," he explained. Christine knew a stab of fierce disappointment.

"Oh! But ..." She trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. The glorious sense of freedom, of liberation from the constraints of her life was too precious to be allowed to slip away. Was it possible that she would be able to take it with her? That Erik would remain as gentle, as easy, as staggeringly _normal_ as he had been this evening?

He was standing, offering her coat. She accepted numbly.

"Will we be able to come again?" she asked.

Erik nodded cautiously. "If you would like to."

Áine's farewell was characteristically brusque and frank. "Christine, lovely to have met you; do come again." She turned to Erik and gave him a half-ironical nod. "Don't be a stranger." She curled an arm around his neck and pressed a fierce kiss to his unmasked cheek, whispering something in his ear which Christine could not hear. She did, however, see the dull flush spread across the visible part of Erik's face; he gave a laugh which sounded part genuine amusement and part exasperation.

"Thank you, Áine."

They joined the mass exodus into the cold night. Christine shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around herself, and Erik looked at her sharply.

"It is too cold for you," he said. "We will find a carriage."

"No," she said, too quickly, and felt his gaze quizzical on her. "No – let's walk a little." She gave a little laugh. "I'm not ready to go home just yet."

Erik acquiesced surprisingly easily. "Very well." His long fingers undid the catch at his neck, and he shrugged his way out of his cloak. "If that is to be the case, you will humour my concern for your person and wear this."

"Oh, no!" Christine protested anxiously. "You'll freeze to death!"

The twist of Erik's mouth was ironically amused. He settled the cloak on her shoulders without touching her, leaving her to fumble with the fastening. "Still less of a concern than the alternative."

Christine looked up at him in shock – had that been a _joke_? - and stumbled over an exposed tree root in her path. She felt Erik's fingers clamp around her upper arm to keep her from falling. He released her as soon as she was secure on her feet again, as though to touch her – through two cloaks and a winter dress – burned him.

"Forgive me," he said shortly.

Christine looked up at the sky, as thick and as black as tar. The stars still shone: tiny glimmers of iridescence against the mighty grandeur of the firmament. She felt very small, and light: as though the only thing anchoring her to this world were Erik's heavy presence beside her, his boots crunching the fallen leaves underfoot.

"Will you tell me something?" she asked suddenly.

"If I can," he said guardedly.

Christine hesitated, but the intoxication of the evening was still warm within her, and she asked the question before she could change her mind. "What did Áine say to you before we left the Black Boar?" He was silent. "You needn't tell me, if you don't want to," she said hurriedly.

"She asked me ..." he said at last. He sighed, and although she could not see his face, she recognised the sound of his passing a hand over the mask. She wondered briefly whether he was aware of the action, or if it was merely an unconscious reflection of his thought. "She asked me when I was going to tell you how ... hopelessly and desperately in love with you I am."

There was silence. Christine swayed, feeling as though she might faint. She was suddenly far too warm; her hand went instinctively to the fastening of Erik's cloak around her neck.

"Oh," she said weakly.

"Forgive me." His voice seemed to come from a long way away, and she realised how he must have interpreted her response.

"Oh no," she said quickly. Her head was spinning, and she was still not quite sure she was not going to faint. "I mean ... it's all right."

A highly pregnant pause. Christine felt the sky above expand, and contract; the stars rushed around her.

"Is it?"

She seized hold of her courage in both hands and forced herself to look at him. So complete was the darkness that his face seemed all shadow. Only the white of the mask was visible, but she could sense from his sudden, absolute stillness that he was terribly nervous.

"Yes," she whispered, and the stars clustered around her. She no longer felt lost. "It's ... all right."

The faint luminescence of the mask shifted, and she realised that he must be smiling that tentative, crooked smile.

"You have a rehearsal tomorrow morning," he said at last. "I have been remiss to keep you out so late."

They walked back along the dirt track towards the road. Neither spoke. Christine felt warm and, inexplicably, safe. Erik hailed a fortuitously-passing carriage, the driver of which seemed sufficiently liberal or inebriated to be unconcerned by Erik's mask. He hesitated infinitesimally before extending one slender gloved hand to help her ascend the step.

"Erik," she said as he settled into the carriage on the opposite seat. He tilted his head. "We will go back to the Black Boar again, won't we?"

The carriage passed through the pool of light cast by a gas lamp, and she saw Erik's face crease into a true smile.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was rich with promise.

Christine looked out of the window. They were back in the centre of Paris now, and the gas lamps cast wide arcs of light and shadow across the street. Glancing up at the sky, she could no longer see the stars.

But they were still there and, on another cold night, she might yet see them again.

_**~ FIN ~**_


End file.
